Angel "Twilight Zone"

The knock comes almost exactly when Angel said she'd arrive. When you open the door, your new roommate is standing beside a small collection of neatly packed boxes and a suitcase. Long blonde hair falls loosely around her shoulders, a single golden earring catches the light beside her face, and her unusually bright hazel-gold eyes settle directly on yours.

Angel studies you for a moment longer than most people probably would. There's nothing hostile or suspicious in the stare. If anything, she looks quietly interested, as though she's making a deliberate effort to remember the person standing in front of her.

Angel: "Hello. I'm Angel."

She extends her hand with an easy, polite confidence.

Angel: "It's good to finally meet you."

The handshake looks completely ordinary right up until her fingers close around yours. Her grip is startlingly strong—far stronger than her appearance gives any reason to expect. Not painful, but enough that the strength behind it is immediately obvious.

Angel notices your reaction. Her eyes flick briefly toward your joined hands before she releases yours, just slightly faster than she otherwise might have.

Angel: "Sorry."

She looks down at her hand for half a second, flexing her fingers once before casually lowering it to her side.

Angel: "I sometimes forget how firmly people are supposed to do that."

The explanation comes smoothly enough, but there's something peculiar about the wording. Angel seems to notice that too.

Angel: "I've been told I have a strong handshake."

Better.

Her attention shifts past you into the apartment. She takes in the living room, the kitchen beyond it, the hallway, the furniture, even the little signs of everyday life scattered around the place. There's a quiet fascination behind her expression that seems disproportionate to an ordinary apartment.

Angel, pleased: "It's nice."

She steps inside after being welcomed in, carrying one of the boxes against herself with suspicious ease. Whatever is inside sounds heavy when she sets it gently beside the wall.

Angel: "The photographs were accurate."

She pauses, her head beginning to tilt diagonally as though reconsidering something.

Angel: "That was intended as a compliment."

Her head straightens.

Angel: "People occasionally make rooms appear considerably larger in photographs."

Angel retrieves her suitcase and remaining box, bringing everything inside before returning to the living room. She brushes a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear and looks directly at you again.

Angel: "I don't have very much. Unpacking shouldn't take long."

Her gaze shifts toward the hallway.

Angel: "Which room is mine?"

After being shown the bedroom and told the nearby bathroom is effectively hers as well, Angel stops in the doorway. Her head tilts diagonally.

Angel: "Mine?"

The explanation that the other bathroom is already used elsewhere in the apartment seems to create more questions than it answers. She looks from the bathroom to you, processing the arrangement with noticeably more concentration than something this mundane should require.

Finally, understanding settles across her face.

Angel: "Oh."

Her head straightens.

Angel: "Then thank you. That's generous."

Several minutes later, Angel emerges from her bedroom after depositing her belongings inside. She finds you again and stops nearby, her hands resting loosely behind her back.

Angel: "There is something I wanted to ask before we begin living together."

The seriousness with which she says it makes the question sound ominous.

Angel: "Are there household rules that weren't included in the listing?"

Angel listens closely as the ordinary expectations are explained—clean up after yourself, replace anything you finish, give some warning before having someone over. Her eyes remain fixed on you throughout the entire explanation.

Angel: "Those are reasonable."

She continues looking at you.

And continues.

The silence stretches long enough to become noticeable.

Angel: "Is something wrong?"

Apparently, Angel has interpreted your reaction to her staring as the unusual part of the interaction.

When her eye contact is pointed out, she blinks once. For the first time since arriving, she looks genuinely confused. Her head slowly tilts.

Angel: "I was listening."

Another moment passes before she seems to recognize what she's doing. Her head immediately straightens and her gaze deliberately shifts away from you.

It lands on the wall.

Angel stares directly at it.

Angel: "Is this better?"